


A Thin Pale Line

by InhoePublishing



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InhoePublishing/pseuds/InhoePublishing
Summary: A compliment to The Parting Glass by Evenstar656. Kirk and McCoy try to move forward with their relationship, but the past keeps getting in the way.McCoy felt his face flush with embarrassment but held his ground. “I can recommend someone you can talk with, someone experienced in dealing with PTSD issues.”“What would I say? I told you, Bones, I don’t remember anything.”McCoy slowly walked up to Jim. “Are you sure about that?” He reached to touch the scar, only to have Jim capture his hand in a bruising grip before his fingers could make contact.“Bones,” he warned.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 71





	A Thin Pale Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evenstar656](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenstar656/gifts).



This story is a continuation of Evenstar656 [The Parting Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109750). You'll want to read that brilliant work first to get the full impact of this story. I pulled on a loose thread she offered. It has been published with her consent. My first McKirk. Hope I got it right.

 **Edited** by the lovely and talented DiamondBlue4, who always makes my work better.

* * *

**A Thin Pale Line**

McCoy rolled onto Jim, using his legs to pin the younger man to the bed, just the way his hand-to-hand instructor – who happened to be under him – had taught. With both hands on either side of Jim’s shoulders, he levered himself over the man, using the strength in his arms to keep most of his weight off Jim. Bare chested with only a pair of long bottoms for cover, Jim’s body lay compliant despite reverberating with unspent energy. Brilliant blue eyes stared up at him with amusement.

“What you gonna do now, old man?”

It’d been a week since McCoy had returned from his ‘extended leave’ and reclaimed his position as CMO. He’d been busy acclimating again to the routine of Sickbay and ship life. Jim had been busy, too, and this was only the second night they’d shared a bed since his return. It was all still new to McCoy, and neither of them had quite figured out their roles in this new relationship. It had seemed easier in Georgia, in the simple bungalow by the ocean. Out of uniform and away from the demands of duty, they had just been Jim and Bones, and had worked it out. But on the ship things seemed different – and fraught. The crew’s eyes were always on the Captain, and McCoy was a little self-conscious about being seen entering the Captain’s quarters for the night. And then there was the ‘mechanics’. Sex with a man was more complicated in some ways, a bit of a power struggle when determining who was on top, or who initiated what, and when. They were still learning each other’s boundaries and preferences. McCoy wasn’t surprised to discover that Jim fucked liked he fought: no holds barred. But right now, Jim seemed content to let McCoy explore and find his own way.

“A little experiment,” he said in a low tone.

He felt Jim getting hard and moved his hips just enough to give Jim some friction before he moved his right-hand down Jim’s smooth flank to grip Jim’s hip possessively, enjoying the sensation of Jim’s prominent iliac crest nestling in his palm. Releasing slowly, he trailed his fingers along the flat belly, feeling the muscles tighten in response. He’d touched this body dozens of times as a doctor, but he’d never explored Jim this way, and delighted when a shiver swept Jim’s frame. Jim hadn’t gained the weight back he’d lost from his injury and convalescence, and his lean frame made it possible to feel every muscle reacting beneath the smooth skin. There was something so alive about the moment. He pressed his leg into Jim’s groin with just enough pressure to cause Jim’s breath to hitch.

McCoy smirked. “Something you wanna say?”

Jim’s eyes were bright with anticipation, as he held himself unnaturally still. “Show me what you got, Bones,” he said, his voice throaty and breathless, his cheeks flushed.

McCoy almost regretted what he’d come here to do, and for a brief moment thought to abandon his agenda and play into Jim’s script. If Jim hadn’t flinched and pulled away from him during the exam, he would have indulged in the moment, and they both would have probably gotten a good night’s sleep, sated and content.

McCoy watched Jim’s reaction carefully as his fingers lightly brushed the faded scar that transected Jim’s chest. Something shifted in the blue eyes and McCoy felt all the muscles along Jim’s ribs tighten. Without missing a beat, Jim smoothly captured McCoy’s hand and moved it lower, stretching up to plant a firm kiss on McCoy’s lips. McCoy opened his mouth to taste Jim, because goddamn the kid could kiss. He pressed Jim down to the pillow as the kiss deepened. A low moan escaped from the back of Jim’s throat. Stroking Jim’s bottom lip with his tongue, McCoy moved his hand upward again, caressing the thin scar with his thumb.

Jim tensed and pulled away, breaking off the kiss. In one move, he pushed McCoy off and rolled into a sitting position, forcing McCoy onto his back. Jim swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat with his back to McCoy, hands clenched on the mattress edge.

McCoy turned on his side, and leaned on an elbow, noting that the muscles along Jim’s shoulders were knotted with tension. He didn’t try and touch Jim, simply waited for the younger man to collect himself, offer an explanation that McCoy knew from long experience would be some kind of bullshit.

Instead, Jim stood and walked a few steps toward the seating area, as if he needed to put some space between them. The sleep bottoms hung loosely on Jim’s narrow hips and McCoy was certain all evidence of their foreplay had vanished. He wanted to call Jim back to bed, ease away the tension that rippled through the too lean body. He wanted Jim back in bed, where he could use his hands and mouth to elicit the guttural sounds of arousal that made McCoy hard. But he couldn’t, because even though he and Jim were enjoying the exploration of their new sexual relationship, McCoy was still a doctor… and Jim’s friend.

“What’s up, kid.” He kept his tone easy as he waited to see what Jim would do next.

“Sorry, Bones.” Jim apologized, the rasped words sounding as if he’d pulled them from a place deep within. “I guess I’m not in the mood tonight.”

Not surprisingly, Jim was offering him a graceful way out the awkward situation. He’d always been generous, that way, putting others ahead of himself. For a moment, McCoy wanted to take it, roll off the bed and clap Jim on the shoulder, tell him no big deal, he was tired, too. But it would set a dangerous precedent, if he acted as if nothing troubling had occurred, as if Jim didn’t cringe every time McCoy touched that fucking scar. It would be so easy to pretend, to turn a blind eye, to get Jim to writhe in ecstasy beneath him, as he had last night, to revel in the low sounds of pleasure at his touch. But Jim didn’t do anything easy, and McCoy was done pretending.

“You were hard a minute ago.”

Jim half-turned his head toward McCoy, not meeting his eyes. “Long day. I’m tired.”

“Uh-huh.” McCoy studied Jim. This reaction – flight instead of fight – had been Jim’s standard pattern since their return from Georgia. McCoy hadn’t said anything because he’d thought Jim would get used to him touching the scar, a symbol of both his worst nightmare and his greatest achievement. But if anything, Jim’s response to his touch there had worsened. “I’ve seen you get hard while sleeping, Jim. It takes more than fatigue to make you soft.” He paused. “You react like this whenever I touch your surgical scar.”

“That’s not it,” Jim said sharply.

“I think it is. When I gave you an exam the other day, you recoiled when my fingers brushed against it.”

Jim’s back was a taut plane of denial. “It’s sensitive.”

Which was a damn lie, because McCoy had run the tests and the scar itself had healed without complications. In fact, it was all but faded now, a thin, pale line that only a trained eye could see.

“I think it’s more than that,” he said carefully. “Whenever I touch it, you get tense and the look in your eyes tells me you’ve gone somewhere I can’t follow.” McCoy rolled off the bed, not taking his gaze off Jim. “I gotta tell you, kid, you look like a man remembering something he doesn’t want to admit ever happened.”

Jim turned, his body tense, mouth tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

McCoy looked at him with compassion. McCoy had had weeks to process his own shit. Distance from the ship, Starfleet, medical…. The space had helped to heal his own emotions, allowed him the opportunity to deal with the images and emotions that haunted his sleep, given him time to put them in some kind of order, so they wouldn’t drown him. Not to mention he’d had his mother as a sounding board, and god knows she took no shit. But who’d Jim had to talk with, once he woke? McCoy had been at his mother’s, licking his wounds while Jim was still unconscious. His medical record indicated no mental therapy had been sought or prescribed, because Jim could bullshit with the best of them and no doubt Jim had manufactured one of his legendary smiles and convinced everyone around him that he was fine. But McCoy knew what had really happened. The entire time he had been recovering, Jim had been working his way to Georgia, first in his head, and then in reality, trying to figure out what had happened between them and how to get McCoy back. And McCoy would bet a month’s pay that Jim hadn’t stopped to think about what had occurred on S9 even once. And then McCoy, fucking sap that he was, had rolled into bed with him as if nothing untoward had ever happened.

“Have you talked to a counselor about what happened to you on S9?”

Jim snorted. “I read all the reports, including yours. And you left me the goddamn vids, so I saw plenty.”

He didn’t allow himself to react to Jim’s words. He knew diversion when he heard it. “I said talk, not view.” He scrutinized Jim. “You sleeping all right?”

“Are you planning on giving me some pointers?” Jim shot back. “Because you looked so great when I arrived on your doorstep.”

McCoy felt his face flush with embarrassment but held his ground. “I can recommend someone you can talk with, someone experienced in dealing with PTSD issues.”

“What would I say? I told you, Bones, I don’t remember anything.”

McCoy slowly walked up to Jim. “Are you sure about that?” He reached to touch the scar, only to have Jim capture his hand in a bruising grip before his fingers could make contact.

“Bones,” he warned.

McCoy held still, watching Jim closely. Jim was breathing harder now, and his pupils were dilated, and McCoy could clearly see him struggling as he tried to control his reactions. And failing. Sweat broke out on Jim’s forehead and chest, as he gasped for air, the droplets running down his body and soaking into his waist band.

“Jim?” The word was gentle and cautious.

The grip on his hand was an iron vise, threatening to grind his bones to dust. Jim’s eyes were unfocused and unnaturally bright.

“I’m sorry but I’m gonna need that hand if I want to continue performing surgeries,” he said softly, taking a step closer and tugging just slightly against the painful grip.

But Jim didn’t react, didn’t seem able to pick up on McCoy’s cue. Instead, he continued to stare vacantly at McCoy, while he took increasingly short, rapid breaths. Damn it all, the kid was on the verge of hyperventilating. McCoy could count Jim’s carotid pulse from where he stood, the blood pumping rapidly beneath the delicate skin. His heart was in overdrive.

Fuck.

“Jim,” he said calmly. “Look at me, kid. I need you to slow down your breathing. Try to take a deep breath.”

Jim stared at him blankly. His pupils were enormous, ringed by only a thin rim of brilliant blue, and Jim gave no indication he’d heard or understood McCoy’s instructions. McCoy recognized the signs immediately, knew what it was, knew he’d have to draw Jim out of it carefully, and as quickly as possible. Force was the wrong instrument, and Jim was too far down the rabbit hole to just pull out of this tailspin with diversion.

The hand gripping his began to shake.

“Come on, darlin’. Everything is all right. You’re safe. It’s just me and you, talking. Breathe for me now, nice and slow.”

He continued to gently coach Jim, his voice deliberately low and soothing. Suddenly, Jim released his hand and staggered backward, still breathing in short, rapid gasps and shaking uncontrollably.

“You’re going to be okay, Jim. I know your chest hurts but that’s because you’re breathing too fast, and blowing off all your carbon dioxide. You just need to slow down your breathing, kid.”

Pressed up against the wall now, hyperventilating and flushed, Jim’s legs folded beneath him and he slid, boneless, down the smooth surface, pulling his knees up close to his chest.

Shit.

McCoy knelt before him but refrained from touching Jim, unsure whether his touch would help or escalate matters. _Come on, kid, don’t make this so difficult._ He’d _never_ seen Jim react this way. But he wasn’t criticizing; he’d hardly made a stellar show of things himself. Skipping out before Jim regained consciousness had likely prevented him from experiencing a similar reaction. God knows, in the days following his ‘resignation’, he’d wanted to crawl into a fetal position in some dark corner and remain there.

“Slow it down, Jim. Deep breath in, and hold it for a three count.”

Jim rested his forehead on his knees, his shoulders heaving as he sucked in one rapid breath after another. The desperate sound filled the cabin.

Goddamn it, Jim was going to have a fucking heart attack at this rate.

“Can you lie down?” McCoy asked. Getting Jim supine would distribute his blood flow evenly, encourage his heart to slow.

Jim shook his head. At least he was listening, so something was getting through.

“You can’t stay like this, kid,” he said quietly. “We gotta get your heart rate down before you pass out.”

Jim twisted his fingers together so tightly the knuckles turned white.

Not knowing what else to do, McCoy tentatively touched Jim’s arm. Jim’s skin felt hot and damp beneath his fingers. When Jim didn’t shrink away or flinch, McCoy lightly gripped Jim’s bicep. Moving slowly, as if Jim would break into a million small pieces at the slightest provocation, McCoy gently coaxed him to lie flat on the carpeted deck. Once Jim was horizontal, McCoy moved his hand to Jim’s wrist. His fingertips easily detected the radial artery, where Jim’s pounding pulse continued to broadcast his distress.

Jim looked at him with a wide-eyed panic and put a trembling hand to his chest, as if that might slow down the frantic respirations. “Can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can,” McCoy assured him, desperate to maintain eye contact with Jim now that Jim was finally looking at him. “There’s plenty of air, Jim. It just feels like there’s not because you’re having a panic attack. It’ll pass.” He covered Jim’s hand with his own and felt Jim’s heart hammering wildly, thudding against his ribs. “Come on, darlin’. Try breathing with me. Inhale and hold, nice and easy.”

It took another five minutes for Jim’s breathing to finally show signs of slowing.

“Good.” Beneath his fingers, Jim’s pulse began to slow.

The long, intense minutes ticked past, filled with the sounds of the two men breathing in unison. As suddenly as it had begun, the reaction passed. Soaked in sweat, Jim began to shiver.

“I’ll be right back,” McCoy said and retrieved a blanket from the bed and a cool, wet cloth from the bathroom. After covering Jim with the blanket, he gently wiped Jim’s flush face with the cloth. “Feel better?”

It took Jim a long moment to respond. Finally, he nodded ever so slightly, his eyelids drooping in exhaustion.

McCoy checked his pulse and, satisfied, lay down beside Jim. Staring up, he realized the nondescript ceiling reminded him of a smooth, white beach. Although he’d never appreciated it in the past, the subtle thrum of the ship’s engines relaxed him further. He could almost imagine he was lying on the beach, enjoying the sound of the waves. The thought was oddly comforting.

“Now what?” Jim finally asked in a sleepy voice.

“We go to sleep.”

“On the floor?”

“Well, I’m not hauling your ass into the bed if that’s what you’re thinking. And anyway, the mood’s kind of been broken.”

Jim turned his head to look at McCoy, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and turned away. “Sorry,” he said.

McCoy cringed. “I think that’s my line.”

“I… I don’t know what just happened. Why I reacted that way.”

McCoy remained silent. He’d said enough for one night.

“I really don’t remember getting shot,” Jim said in a thin voice. “One second, we were running and the next I was waking up in sickbay. With M’Benga hovering over me, instead of you.”

“I know.” Unfortunately, McCoy remembered everything. And that was both a blessing and a curse. Unlike Jim, he knew what was haunting his subconscious.

They lay in silence for long minutes until Jim spoke again. “Did you talk to someone?”

“Yeah.” If Jim Beam counted.

“This has never happened before.”

“I figured.” He glanced at Jim, who was now staring hard at the ceiling, as if the answers to the universe were written there. “Maybe never will, again.”

Jim bit his bottom lip. “Maybe,” he said doubtfully.

McCoy turned back to the ceiling. “Don’t think so hard. There’s no magic solution, no miracle pill, for this type of thing.”

Silence.

“What if it happens when I’m on the bridge?” Jim’s voice was thin. “I can’t afford to be out of control. I’m the captain.”

He sighed. “What did I say about thinking so hard? No matter how many times you take it apart in your head, it’s still boils down to the same thing, whether you can remember the details or not. You were shot. You nearly died. It affected everyone, including yourself. Go talk to someone, Jim. It’s the only way to put it behind you.”

“Not you?”

He felt Jim’s eyes on him. “It can’t be me, kid. Not this time.”

They lay in silence, listening to the sounds of the ship.

“Ever think we’d be here, Bones?” Jim asked.

“Lying on the floor of your quarters like a couple of reprobates? Had it pegged years ago. Wonder what took us so long.”

“I’m serious.” Jim nudged him with his arm. “After everything I’ve been through in my life, this… this puts me over the line. One fucking touch.”

McCoy frowned. There was a lot he could say about that, and maybe he would, someday. But his opinions would wait. Instead he asked, “What line?”

“The _line_. Between sanity and insanity. Madness and genius. Right and wrong, good and evil. Courage and fear; control and helplessness. Whatever.”

Whatever.

Jim didn’t understand that he crossed that line every day, from one side and back again, because it was his responsibility as captain to decide who lived and who died. The authority Starfleet had granted him often meant the difference between war and peace. There was nothing inherently sane or intelligent or right about that authority, but, for the most part, the men and women who made it to the captain’s chair were ready for command. The pure genius of Jim’s mind couldn’t understand the too simple equation of what had happened and why. And now he wanted to solve a problem he couldn’t remember experiencing, because if he could solve it, he could control it. Christ, the kid was going to have a damn stroke by the time he was thirty-five, at this rate.

Unless he learned to talk to someone.

Unless McCoy taught him what he’d had to learn as a first-year resident, the first time he’d condemned a patient to die at triage because she was too far gone and they only had enough surgeons to save the ones with a higher survival rate.

“Easy to cross,” he said at last. “It’s a thin, fucking line, Jim.”

THE END


End file.
